bruised//«stiles stilinski»

Part 4

Scott's gonna give me a lift to school in his mom's car, as my Jeep is still at my house. I take my anti-depressants and anxiety meds, Scott watching me as he eats breakfast. He looks sad at the way I so casually swallow the pills.

"You sure you're not hungry?" He asks, looking concerned after he's wolfed down some cereal. I shake my head.

"I never really eat breakfast." I say, shrugging.

"Stiles, you have to eat breakfast!" Scott moans, getting an apple out of the fruit bowl. "Here," he thrusts the fruit in my hand, "eat." He instructs.

I gulp. I take small, pathetic bites of the apple and I must admit, it makes my stomach growl. But I resist eating all of it. Scott doesn't look convinced when I say I've finished, but he doesn't fight me on it. We leave for school.

"Thanks for the lift." I hiss, flinching in pain as I climb out of the car.

"Of course." Says Scott simply, through furrowed brows though.

Making sure my hood is securely over my head and covering as much of my face as possible, I walk with Scott into school.

"Stiles?" I hear Scott's voice ask, making me jump out of my daze.

"Yeah?" I ask back, but then look in the direction his eyes are pointing and see Lydia, rushing over to us desperately. She was off sick yesterday. Crap...

"What the hell happened?" She asks, her voice filled with concern.

"Nothing." I mumble, looking away.

"That bruise doesn't look like nothing!" She scowls, a hand on my face, tracing the bruises and the large, deep gash on my cheek. My busted lip, though swollen, has slightly gone down and my black eye is now a yellowish/green color.

"Lydia, trust me. I, uh, got in a fight." I lie, nudging Scott so he'll agree with me.

"Stiles, we've been friends long enough I can tell when you're lying your ass off." She states, pouting, a hand sassily resting on her hip.

I roll my eyes and huff. "Fine. I got beat up." I say, my voice slightly weak. It is kind of true. Her face goes soft yet sad.

"What happened?" She asks, her voice close to a whisper.

"I don't wanna talk about it." I say dismissively, signalling the end of conversation.

She leaves the subject alone as she knows that if I did talk about something like that, I'd just get anxious and she's kinda uncomfortable around me then, like she can't handle my mental illnesses. But, she is there for me. Like Scott.

***

"Hey, uh, can you drop me off at Eichen?" I ask Scott, who's driving me from school. His face crumples up in confusion.

"My support group." I state, when he doesn't answer.

"Oh. Yeah, sure." Says Scott, missing the turning to his house and continuing down the current street we're on.

"Thanks."

We pull up outside the towering, intimidating gates and Scott gets out of the car to see me in.

"Dude, I'm fine." I say, chuckling.

Scott shrugs, says goodbye, then gets in his car and drives off as I enter the gates and walk nervously into the building.

I enter the large room with a semi circle of chairs displayed evenly around. Taking a seat on the very end, I observe my surroundings. Someone next to me, a girl of about 16, sits shaking her leg up and down nervously. She looks at me quickly, only a glance, and I recognise her. She's beautiful, yeah, but I know her. I think.

As we go around the semi circle, introducing ourselves and explaining why we're here, I watch the girl is constantly glancing at the clock then back to the group. Like me then, she's obviously nervous about having to talk in front of everyone. We have a point. Why make an already constantly anxious person even more anxious by putting them in a pressurising speaking position?

Then it's her turn. With her sleeves pulled down over her hands, she wipes a strand of her hair off her face and clears her throat.

"I'm Malia..." She begins, looking around nervously at the staring faces.

The group leader raises her eyebrows, signalling her to carry on.

"Um, I have depression- I cut. Was suicidal. Not anymore." She says, her voice kind of wobbly. The lady smiles at her as she sits down.

Malia.

Suddenly I realise I need to stand up and slowly rise from my chair.

"I'm Stiles..." I say, looking around. My eyes find themselves on Malia several times. "I have depression, severe anxiety and ADHD." I say, looking at Malia out of the corner of my eye.

"Tell us Stiles," begins the group leader, who only does this sometimes, "what's it like to live with those disorders?" Asks the woman softly.

I feel my mind go blank.

"What's it like?" I repeat her question, "It's... It's shit. People don't get it. This constant... Constant weight on your shoulder. Weight of depression, anxiety, whatever you might have... It's so damn heavy. I can't describe it, I mean, you probably don't get it but-"

"I get it." Says Malia plainly. I look at her and blink. She stands up so she's next to me.

"Go on, Malia." Says the group leader, who looks pleased.

"Yeah. He's right, it is. It's this weight that you can't lighten, like, no matter how hard you try, it's still as heavy as normal." Her voice is emotionless as she speaks, and she kind of shrugs when she stops talking and sits down. I repeat the action and sit back down as well.

"I agree." Says another voice from across the room, raising his hand. "I have bipolar disorder, and like, sometimes I feel like the burden to my mom and stuff, but like, they don't realise the only weight being carried is by me, you know?" He says, and several others nod. Soon everyone is in agreement and I can't help but flash a small grin at Malia.